From that ancient lofty turret, Overlooking land and sea, Peals of comfort have been wafted, Sounds of gladness o’er the lea. Many a storm-tost, weary wanderer Looked to thee as hope’s bright star, Listened to thy mellow chiming, Smiling as he crossed the bar.

Ah! old bells, beneath your tolling, Many a form lies buried low, ’Neath the green-sward of “God’s Acre,” Rest they, all their sorrows o’er. Softly wave the bending willows, Sweetly sing the birds their lays, Whilst thy dear old bells are clanging, They are singing hymns of praise.